Guns in the Gallery

NINETEEN

Of course, the Whittakers had a driver. And of course he looked as unlike a uniformed chauffeur as it was possible to be. The laid-back style of Butterwyke House was carried through in all its domestic staff. Though they were undoubtedly servants, they dressed and were treated more like members of the family. Ned and Sheena still weren’t quite at ease with their huge wealth.

The driver’s name was Kier. In his early thirties, casually dressed in a crisp white T-shirt, well-ironed jeans and neat moccasins. Chervil had arranged before Jude started her session with Sam Torino that he would drive her back to Woodside Cottage and he was hanging around Walden when she appeared from the treatment yurt. But Kier didn’t look as though he were waiting in a professional capacity. That wouldn’t have been cool. He somehow managed to make it appear as if he just happened to be there, and yes, he’d be happy to take Jude home.

He drove a very new-looking Toyota Prius. Of course, the Whittakers would run green cars. Though their contribution to saving the planet might have been a little diminished by the size of their fleet of Toyota Priuses.

Jude was pleased to have the opportunity to question someone with perhaps a different view of recent events at Butterwyke House. And though, as ever, she was emotionally drained by her healing efforts, she quickly got on to the subject of Fennel Whittaker’s death.

Kier, she found, was more than ready to talk about it. In fact, from the fervency of his words, she got the impression that he might have held a candle for the dead girl for some time. He certainly didn’t have much time for Denzil Willoughby.

‘I used to drive the two of them around a bit. Ned’s very generous with my services.’ He didn’t sound as though he were entirely happy with that state of affairs. ‘And of course when it came to Fennel . . . well, he could never refuse her anything.’

‘No. I saw him earlier in the week. He was terribly cut up about what happened to her.’

‘I don’t think he’ll ever recover,’ said Kier, as if stating an unarguable fact. ‘I think she could have got better. There seem to be lots of new treatments, drugs, talking therapies . . . It’s probably the best time ever to suffer from depression, in terms of getting the condition cured.’

‘Is it something about which you know a lot?’ It was the polite way of asking whether Kier himself suffered from depression.

‘No. Not really. I’ve got most of what I know from talking to Fennel. She was up with all the latest treatments. She was absolutely determined to get better, somehow. That’s why I was so devastated when I heard that she’d actually done it.’

This was good news to Jude. It meant that she wasn’t the only person who had found positivity in the girl’s mindset. ‘And you think she did actually do it?’ she asked gently.

The slowness of Kier’s response showed that the idea of murder had never entered his head. ‘How d’you mean?’

‘Well, I’d seen her a couple of times in the weeks before her death and, like you, I thought she seemed quite up, certainly not on the verge of topping herself. So, if she didn’t commit suicide . . .’

‘Well, it sure as hell wasn’t an accident.’ Kier was again slow – or perhaps unwilling – to make the logical connection. ‘Are you suggesting that she might have been murdered?’ he asked at last.

Jude shrugged. ‘As Sherlock Holmes put it, “Once you eliminate the impossible, whatever remains, no matter how improbable, must be the truth.”’

‘Yes, I’ve read some of those stories,’ said the driver thoughtfully, still trying to come to terms with the new idea. ‘I think I’d rather believe that Fennel was murdered . . . you know, as opposed to killing herself.’

‘If that were true, we’d be back to the old question: “Who Done It?’

Kier nodded slowly. ‘Yes, we would.’

‘Any thoughts?’ asked Jude. ‘Anyone you’d cast in the role of murderer?’ He remained silent. ‘You probably know as much as anyone about what goes on at Butterwyke House.’

‘Yes, I see quite a lot.’

‘And you probably know how the different family members get on together . . .’ Jude knew she was pushing her luck. The Butterwyke House staff she’d met all seemed extremely loyal and might be reluctant to confide anything to their employers’ discredit.

But Kier seemed to be too caught up in the ramifications of the new idea to feel such scruples. ‘Well, Chervil and Fennel always had a fairly volatile relationship, but I think basically they were OK with each other. I mean, I think Chervil resented Fennel’s illness . . .’

‘That’s the impression I got.’

‘At times she almost seemed to suggest her sister was putting it on . . . you know, just to draw attention to herself.’

‘And do you believe that?’

‘No,’ he replied vehemently. ‘I’ve seen the states Fennel used to get into . . . you know, when I was driving her around. No, the illness was genuine. I even . . .’ He stopped himself.

‘You even . . . what?’ asked Jude softly.

He paused, as if deliberating whether to tell her or not. Then he said, ‘I drove her back to Butterwyke from the Pimlico flat . . . you know. Well, perhaps you don’t know . . . when—’

‘I did know about her previous suicide attempt, yes.’

‘We were all very shocked by that. Ned in particular. He was in a terrible state. I mean, up until then we knew Fennel had problems, but we’d never have guessed they were that serious . . . you know, that she’d go as far as to . . .’

‘You say you drove her back to Butterwyke House. Was she not hospitalized after the attempt?’

‘No. Chervil found her in the flat and managed to wake her up. Got her to sick up most of the pills, bandaged the cuts and filled her full of black coffee. Then she called Ned. I drove him up to London. God, the red lights we shot through that day, I was lucky not to be booked twenty times. And when we got to the flat, Ned checked Fennel out and reckoned she’d be OK to be taken back to Butterwyke and treated there. He didn’t want the publicity, both from Fennel’s point of view and his own. And he knew if the press got a sniff of what’d happened, it’d be over the front pages like a rash. Besides, down here he’s got a doctor who he knows is very discreet.’

‘Did Chervil drive back with you that day?’

‘No, just Ned and Fennel. He was cradling her in the back of the car, like she was a baby, and he was crying all the way there.’

‘Any idea where Chervil went?’

‘I think she sorted out someone to clean up the flat.’

‘Again someone discreet?’

‘You betcha. Ned and Sheena have got quite good at preserving their privacy over the years. They’ve needed to. You know how obsessed the papers are with people who’ve got money. Anyway, Ned and Sheena know the right people to pay to ensure that they are left alone.’

‘And tell me, Kier, did you actually see Fennel’s . . . you know, where she made the attempt?’

‘I saw the bathroom. There was blood all over the place. But Chervil had tied torn-up towels round her sister’s arms and got her lying down on the bed by the time Ned and I got there.’

‘And you didn’t see a suicide note?’

‘No. Chervil said there wasn’t one.’

‘Right.’ Jude suppressed a yawn. The session with Sam Torino had really taken it out of her. ‘So . . . back to the Who Done It question . . .’

‘Well, it seems hard to imagine that anyone . . . certainly nobody in the family.’

‘Are you sure about that?’

‘Look, you’ve seen the state Ned’s in. Nobody would bring that on himself.’

‘No, probably not. What about Sheena?’ Again Jude worried whether she was pushing too hard. ‘She doesn’t seem to be making any secret of the fact that she’s relieved by her daughter’s death.’

‘Yes, she’s a strange one, Sheena. I shouldn’t say this, but I think she did rather resent Fennel’s hold over Ned. Still, harbouring those kind of feelings . . . well, it’s a long way away from murdering someone.’

‘Yes. But it’s interesting to weigh up the possibilities.’

‘I suppose so. Gives something to focus the mind on. But just a minute, if there was any thought of murder, surely the police would have been on to it?’

Jude was forced to admit that, so far as she could tell, the police had taken the suicide at face value. As it got further away in her recollection, the encounter she had had with Detective Inspector Hodgkinson seemed to have become more and more patronizing.

‘Well, the police know what they’re doing,’ said Kier, perfectly reasonably. ‘And they’ve released Fennel’s body, so they must have finished any forensic examination they might be doing. The funeral’s going to be on Wednesday week.’ This was new information to Jude. ‘Just family and very close friends.’

‘Where?’

‘There’s a chapel in the grounds of Butterwyke. It’s being held there.’

Typical, thought Jude. Whoever had built the house back in the eighteenth century must have had the same desire for privacy as the Whittakers. Everything sewn up and sanitized within the boundaries of the estate.

‘Kier, indulge me for a minute. Just imagine that Fennel’s death wasn’t suicide . . .’

‘That she was murdered?’

‘Yes. If that were the case, would you have anyone in the frame as a suspect?’

‘There’s an obvious one.’ The driver answered that question readily enough. ‘I heard their conversations in the back of this car when I was driving them about. He treated her like shit.’ The resentment was back in his voice.

‘Sorry? Who are we talking about?’

‘That sleazebag Denzil Willoughby.’

‘I suppose we could try and get a contact for him through Bonita Green,’ said Jude somewhat lethargically. She still felt drained by her healing session with Sam Torino. ‘Though I don’t know whether the number of her flat is in the book. The Cornelian Gallery will be, but it’ll be closed now, and actually, I seem to recall she doesn’t open on Sundays, so we won’t be able to get her tomorrow either.’

‘Oh, really,’ said Carole, uncharacteristically perky. ‘Come into the twenty-first century, Jude. There’s no problem these days with finding a contact for anyone.’

‘If you’re talking about Facebook and Twitter, I’m—’

‘I’m not talking about them. You don’t have to go to those kinds of lengths. Google will be quite sufficient. You can find virtually everyone, and certainly anyone who’s trying to present some kind of public profile like Denzil Willoughby. Come on, bring your wine glass with you and we’ll check it out on my laptop upstairs.’

‘Carole, I thought the point of having a laptop was that it’s mobile.’

‘Sorry?’

‘You can use it anywhere. On the train, in a coffee shop, upstairs, downstairs.’

Carole Seddon’s face took on a bleak, old-fashioned look. ‘I prefer to use mine in the computer room,’ she said.

Jude sighed wearily, picked up her glass of Chilean Chardonnay and followed her neighbour out of the kitchen.

The ‘computer room’ was in fact Carole’s spare bedroom, very rarely used for its primary function. She almost never had people to stay, except of course for Stephen’s family, and even them she found something of a strain. A guilty feeling of relief came into her mind at the thought that Gaby and Lily would be staying elsewhere on their visit at the end of the month. Which reminded her, she must ring Fulham and report back on Walden. She didn’t really think it would be suitable for them. Fine for the Sam Torinos of this world, but maybe a bit too posh for Gaby . . . though of course she’s be far too discreet to say that to her daughter-in-law’s face.

She brought the laptop out of hibernation and googled Denzil Willoughby. There were, to her, a surprising number of references. Maybe his self-estimation was not so disproportionate to his fame as she had thought.

Carole homed in on the artist’s own website, whose home page contained, in her view, far too many four-letter words. As he had amply demonstrated at the Private View, his target audience was not genteel retired ladies in Fethering.

Links directed browsers to other parts of the website. There was a rather aggressive biography which certainly didn’t mention the shaming fact that he had been a public schoolboy at Lancing College. There were lists of galleries where he had exhibited, though interestingly the Cornelian Gallery was not among them. Whether this was because he thought Fethering too insignificant to mention, or whether he had removed the reference in a fit of pique after the early closing of his exhibition, it was impossible to know.

The website contained pages of photographs of Denzil Willoughby’s work. Guns were evidently a fairly recent preoccupation. Previous collections of work he’d done around the themes of famine, AIDS, tsunamis and the Rwandan genocide. Yet again, Carole Seddon didn’t see anything that she would have given houseroom to.

But the artworks were very definitely for sale. Though the website didn’t quote prices, there were links to Denzil Willoughby’s agent and a couple of galleries with whom he had deals to sell his work. And if he ever sold anything at the prices that had been quoted at the Cornelian Gallery Private View, then he could make quite a good living.

Another link on the website was entitled ‘Artist at Work’. When the two women got into it, all they could see was what appeared to be a dark interior of a huge room.

‘What’s he selling there?’ asked Carole cynically. ‘Space? Darkness? Air? No doubt, because the Great Denzil Willoughby had the concept of marketing such stuff, he can charge what he likes for it.’

‘I don’t think that is one of his artworks,’ said Jude. ‘I think it’s his workshop.’

‘Oh?’

‘And I think there’s a webcam on it permanently, so that members of the public can go online and watch the “Artist at Work”.’

‘What, watch him sticking photographs of black teenagers on to fibreglass guns?’

‘If that happens to be the creation of the moment, yes.’

‘What incredible arrogance! To assume that anyone would be interested in his work in progress. Artists used to work on their own and not show their work until they’d finished it.’

‘That’s not true of all artists, Carole. A lot of them used to treat their studios as a kind of salon, through which all and sundry could pass at will.’

‘Yes, but they were at least real artists.’

‘They “painted things that looked like things”?’

‘Exactly,’ replied Carole, unaware that she was being sent up.

‘Anyway,’ Jude went on, ‘I’m pretty sure that’s what’s happening. When Denzil Willoughby’s there in the workshop, the lights are on and we can watch the genius at work. But presumably neither the genius nor his assistants are working on a Saturday evening.’

‘Assistants?’ Carole repeated incredulously. ‘Why does he have assistants?’

‘Oh, to do the work for him. You don’t think he actually stuck those photographs on the gun himself, do you?’

‘Well, he must have done. If he’s claiming that it’s his work of art, the least he must’ve done is to make the thing.’

‘No, Carole,’ said Jude, an amused grin on her tired face. ‘He just had the concept of doing it.’

As she knew she would, her neighbour just said, ‘Huh.’

Carole went back to the home page of the website, where Jude saw something else of interest. There were two tabs labelled ‘Virtual Visitors’ and ‘Real Visitors’. The first one took them back to the webcam shot of the darkened studio. But the second tab took them to a page on which there was an image of the back of a postcard, artfully scrawled with the words:

‘Want to see the artist at work in the flesh? Every Monday between eleven o’clock and four Denzil Willoughby’s studio is open to any motherfucker who wants to have a look.’ This was followed by instructions as to how to get to the studio.

‘Well,’ said Jude, ‘if we want to talk to Denzil Willoughby, we know what we have to do, don’t we?’

‘Oh, but we couldn’t,’ said Carole.

‘Couldn’t we?’ said Jude.

In the gossip column of Carole’s Sunday Times the following morning there was a photograph of Sam Torino at Walden. It was a measure of her celebrity that space had been made for her in a paper most of whose feature content had been put to bed by the Friday evening.

It was a great advertisement for Chervil Whittaker’s glamping site.

And, needless to say, there was no mention of her sister’s recent death.